"H'm! I reckon I'll give you a shot!" muttered the man, with darkly dubious meaning.
"I wish you would," said Frank. "Our boys have two cartridges apiece given them every day now, and they practise shooting at a target. But as I am a drummer, I don't have any chance to shoot. There's your turkey now."
In fact an unmistakable gobble was just then heard farther on in the woods.
"May I take the gun and go on and shoot him?" Frank asked, with an innocent air.
And he stopped, determined now to get behind the man, if he could not obtain the gun.
The rebel laughed grimly at the idea of giving up his weapon. But the sound of the turkey, together with the boy's cool and self-possessed conduct, had so far deceived him that he no longer drove Frank inexorably before him, but permitted him to walk by his side, and even to lag a little behind.
"Gobble, obble, obble!" said the turkey, behind some bushes, still several rods off.
"Yes, that's my turkey!" said the man, ready enough to claim the unseen fowl.
"How do you know he is yours?" asked Frank.
"I know his gobble. One I had stole gobbled jest like that." And the secessionist's stern features relaxed a little.